Looking east into a milky-blue winter morning, the immense skyscrapers of Chicago soared into the air. The wind was pure Chicago, surly and suspicious as it muttered its way among the concrete and glass canyons. In his penthouse hotel suite, Marvin finished his morning workout, ripping off 50 push-ups in a minute. He had nearly accomplished his tasks. He would soon leave Chicago again. This time he would never return.

Five down, one to go: the devil.

Gazing absently into the rising sun, Marvin dressed in faded jeans and a heavy hooded sweatshirt. As he laced up a pair of battered, steel-toed work boots, scenes from the distant past drifted across his mind’s eye…

......It’s hard to describe what it was like to grow up fat and short, and utterly without grace or confidence. A listener has no frame of reference, unless he or she grew up with the same sad configuration. It is probably the same difficulty a black person has trying to tell a white person how it was to grow up black.

As a boy, Marvin’s unhappy appearance attracted a lot of attention in his rough, “Back o’ the Yards” neighborhood. There was really nowhere to hide. And, with a body that was three or four feet high and three or four feet wide, he didn't have much ability to run---though he tried. Like wolves to a crippled caribou, he drew the bullies, the bored and the beasts. Adding to his misery was his smart mouth, and his helpless and devouring anger. Even when he was getting the crap kicked out of him, he wouldn’t shut up. Even when beaten to a bloody pulp, stripped down to his underpants and tossed out into the snowy school yard, Marvin would scream through his tears, “I’ll get you for this, I’ll get you for this, I’ll get you for this, I’ll get you for this….”

They laughed and laughed, perhaps applying an extra kick or two before they went on their beasty way.His hardworking parents were no help. Recent immigrants, working two jobs each, they also were trying to get ahead and fit in. But, there was no getting ahead for them while raising four kids in a two bedroom walk-up. Overwhelmed with their responsibilities, they shook their heads and told their friends that they couldn't understand why "Marvie doesn't learn to get along with his friends."

....Marvin's "friends."

Of course he tried to “get along with his friends.” He begged and grovelled to be part of a group, any group, at even the lowest level. No one would have him; his comical body and his sputtering, uncontrollable rage made him too much fun right where he was---a side-splitting, clownish punching bag: a defenceless, comedic gift that kept on giving.

And so it went for him, through an eon of solitary hurt and humiliation.

Every Hell on earth eventually ends, even this excruciating west-side-of-Chicago Hell. Marvin finally grew taller than wide. The daily beatings tapered off, then stopped. Joining the Navy, he left Chicago with profound relief. He took advantage of his opportunities, and rapidly moved on and up. In the Navy, everyone was part of a group, part of the team, a shipmate. It rebuilt him, top to bottom. The Navy taught him how to succeed, how to recognize open doors and to walk through them with confidence. On that foundation, he later taught himself to knock the doors down, if that was what was required to get where he wanted to go. Mindful of his porky past, Marvin dedicated himself to a lifelong, daily routine of diet and exercise.

Twenty-five years, and more, had somehow slipped away. Marvin had many friends, and they all knew him as wealthy, confident, friendly and fulfilled. With a loving wife and four children, and money in the bank, he had much to be thankful for. And much to lose. But, behind his success had always been the ruin of his childhood, the frequent terrifying dreams and the unbalanced scales of justice. At some point, he decided to square the accounts.

Moving fast, Marvin easily tracked down the monsters in his childhood closet---the six demons of his daily nightmares. They had never left Chicago, and had moved only from one dreary and hopeless precinct to another. As their fathers and grandfathers had done before them, they worked in the Stockyards or at menial jobs. Soon the Stockyards would close, and they would join the ranks of the unskilled unemployed.

Marvin had property in Milwaukee, and arranged a trip back to the Midwest. He considered, carefully and at length, the legal and moral implications of his revenge. He thought about his family, and all he had to lose. But, the things that had been done could not be undone. A black fury filled his heart, and he moved implacably forward with what some might call a frightening resolve.

After 25 years of bad dreams, the Chicago demons, when confronted in the in the flesh, seemed much smaller and far from threatening. Yet, he made a careful strategy, disguising himself and his revenge until it was fighting time. Then, one by one, Marvin made short work of them, leaving behind a carefully planned trail of broken bones and emergency rooms. Except for number five, all of the demons were pathetic, really. That number five guy, Big George, wasn’t that big anymore and even seemed a new and changed man. To all outward appearances, he truly regretted what he done to boy Marvin, and he had apologized profusely when confronted by the new Marvin. But, the debt demanded to be paid.

Marvin administered very thorough beatings, and George took his like a man. When George was down, wrecked and bleeding, Marvin felt bad. Sort of.

Five down, one to go: the devil.

Marvin left his hotel as the morning turned grey and misty. Low, grumbling clouds promised rain, or sleet and snow. The temperature was falling. He made his way toward the barrens of Chicago, on the westside.

The devil was cornered outside Sammy’s, a garbage bar behind Midway Airport in a gritty and unlovely industrial area. Here was Marvin’s personal Prince of Darkness. Here was the leader of the pack of wolves that had fed on Marvin. This devil in human form had taken particular and personal pleasure in delivering humiliation and suffering. Though the devil was saggy and baggy and sorry-looking, Marvin recognized him instantly. Grey-haired and stooped, he was yet a stubbly-bearded and potbellied version of the nightmare of twenty-five years ago.

The word had gotten out about Marvin’s settling of debts, and the ‘why’ and the ‘who’ of it. As the rain began to fall, the devil was watchful while waiting for his ride. Yet, he did not recognize Marvin as Marvin approached him, until Marvin growled his name. Then recognition flooded over him. He staggered back in surprise, moving in fits and jerks as he looked in desperation for an escape. The frantic piggy eyes in his mottled face shot left and right, and left again.

The rain turned to sleet, coming down hard. The mid-day gloom deepened. Thunder rumbled to the west.

Cutting off the devil’s retreat, the Devil gave him a friendly wave, and closed in.

Tom Dussman is a retired US Navy fighter pilot and United Airlines Captain living on the southern coast of Virginia. An enthusiastic scribbler of prose and poetry, he is the well-renowned author in residence at Sammy's Pub. He pounds the keyboard every day, next to his beloved Muse: Mother Ocean.